


Cherchez la femme

by momopichu



Series: One shot, One world [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momopichu/pseuds/momopichu
Summary: Widowmaker paints portraits of those she's killed - even if she does not realise it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A headcannon I had that Widowmaker paints portraits of people she's killed. So what happens if she wants to paint someone who she can't kill (or because the person is difficult to kill)?

The first picture she painted was a man. A strong visage, his skin reminded her of the silky smoothness of honey. His nose was slightly hooked, under it - framed by neatly cropped beard - a set of beautiful puckered lips. Dark brown hair, wavy, sat atop his head and curled under his ears. She took particular care with his eyes, storm grey set under thick lashes. She was reminded of a port in a storm. As a final touch, she painted crimson roses by his head.

The second picture she painted was a woman. Dark skin the colour of creamy cocoa, she was soft and harsh like the sands of a desert. Angular nose, laugh lines stretched around thin lips that smiled. The woman had silky long grey hair, like ribbons floating in the wind. Her eyes were interesting to paint, dark brown eyes that were both sharp and soft. A tattoo of udjat - the eye of Horus - graced her left eye. As a final touch, she added a pendant around the woman's neck - it contained the picture of a girl child.

The third picture she painted was an omnic. For a long time she fumbled. Skin that was mostly white and silver, the omnic was metallic and hard. He did not have a nose, his eyes were but slits in a face plate. She painted the lights on the omnic's head a bright sky blue, she painted over them again - a softer turquoise. Unsatisfied, she added his hands. Long tapering fingers, they were made of metal but here was where the omnic was soft. His hands reminded her of dancers, powerful yet filled with the grace of the swans.

The forth picture she painted was of a younger woman. Around her mid twenties, she was bright orange. A strange blue contraption was strapped securely to her chest. Her face was bright, she knew that much. She had wild brown hair, she knew that too. What of her nose? Her eyes? Her mouth?

With a start, Widowmaker realised she could not remember the details of the young woman. She eyed the half-finished painting, it looked wrong. Her brush approached the canvas, the younger woman was not so angular - she was rounded, but the muscles! And her hair! Not so long, shorter perhaps, and wilder? Lips pursed in a thin line, Widowmaker leaned into her work. Her brush brushed away the mistakes and repainted corrections. And brushed away the corrections to paint more corrections.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

When the sirens finally blared, thundering in her ears. She threw down her brushes and palette and stormed from the little locker she called her room. Men approached her in the corridor, hard muscled men - they wore a mask of metal-and-cloth with red slits for eyeholes. In their hands, the men held assault rifles in casual but firm grasps. She struck the man on the right squarely in his jaw.

He reeled back. His companion dropped his rifle, hands circling around her wrists, he pulled them tight behind her. The man she had struck recovered quickly, producing a syringe from one of the many pouches that lined his belt - he stuck the needle in her neck. The sedatives flooded her veins and she slumped to the floor.

Hands lifted her, she felt herself being carried into another room. The lights burned her eyes, it hurt. She was laid on a table, the straps came across her chest, around her wrists and ankles. Then came the needles, in her arms, on her neck. Her lungs filled with air. And then the piercing screeches, it never registered that they were her own screams. She didn't know how long it lasted, lights swimming before her eyes. What little warmth there was had drained from her veins. Everything was cold, muted.

"Widowmaker," a voice reverberated in her skull "Do you comply?"

" _Oui, monsieur._ "

The table moved, she faced a holo screen. The man displayed on the screen wore a labcoat, he had black hair and blue eyes.

"Your target," the voice stated "He will be at his home in Paris, France for two hours. Kill him, leave no trace of yourself."

The straps came undone, a great rifle - the widow's kiss - was pressed into her arms.

" _A la vie, a la mort_ ," she whispered.

\---

For a scientist who had incurred the wrath of Talon, he lived in terrible conditions. Papers were scattered about the room, the table and chair were of greying oak and threatened to give out under the slightest weight. The wallpapers peeled, the single bed that stood in the only bedroom seemed to give off a strange odour.

Widowmaker eyed the face of her latest prey, the blood of her victim was splattered across the dingy walls of his one-bedroom flat. She tilted her head to the side, committing his features to memory. He was nothing short of unspectacular, but she would paint him nonetheless. Slinging her rifle across her back, she turned to leave the room. The photo stuck to the back of the door made her pause.

A small dainty face, wild brown hair. An orange jumpsuit, a blue machine across her chest. She had an arm slung around the scientist's shoulders. And her face. Carelessly, Widowmaker ripped the photo from its place on the door. The picture was ruined, her victim's blood covered the young woman's face. Try as she did, she could not rub the dried blood from the photo. She would have to think of something else. Rolling the photo up, she slipped it into an empty compartment in her boot heel. She left as quietly as she came. No one would find the body until a week later.

\---

Back in her locker she painted. The scientist had pale skin that brought out the blue in his eyes. His hair was a mass of black curls on his head. His nose was broken in two places. She painted steadily. She took care in painting the collar of his lab coat, white and neat - they were the contrast of how she had found his house. She removed the photo from her boot heel and unrolled it. Pushing the painting of the scientist aside, she resumed her efforts at painting the young woman.

Here was the blue machine, sat squarely in the middle of the young woman's chest. It was a state-of-the-art device, she knew that much. On closer inspection the device was metallic silver, circular in shape. It was set in a white base fitted to the young woman's body and held in place over a leather jacket with straps. The blue came from its core and shone from within. It reminded her of ice sculptures adorned with lights.

But the face. Lifting the photo to the single bulb of light in her locker, Widowmaker twisted the photo this way and that. Even squinting, she could not make out the features under the dried blood. She rubbed the photo with a thumb, she dared not scratch it. She tried painting what she could see, which was not much at all. Blood covered most of the photo, leaving only the metal contraption on the girl's chest visible. That and the face of the scientist. She didn't want his face, she already knew his face. Corrections upon more corrections. She could feel something build up in her, as if someone had set hot coals within her chest.

She screamed. Picking up the portrait of the scientist, she slashed it with a brush dripping in crimson paint. His face disappeared under the new layer of ink. She tossed the painting aside. Widowmaker sat on the floor hard, head buried in her arms.

Irritation. It burned like an itch she could not scratch.

\---

"She's been more violent lately."

"As compared to...when?"

"Nevermind."

Their voices wafted through the gap underneath her locker door. She kicked the door, ignoring the pain that shot up her leg. The metal door shook with a thundering clang. She heard the guards shift uncomfortably on the other side.

"Must be all those drugs they're pumping into her, I heard they increased the dose."

"Is that why her punches hurt more?"

"Her punches always hurt, you're just becoming a wuss."

The sirens blared throughout the facility. She heard the guards groan outside her door. The latch was coming undone, the door shook with the removal of its lock. Widowmaker stood at the ready, legs slightly apart, her hands balled into fists at her side. When the first ray of light shone through the gap in the door, she leaped. Her fist connected with air, the sting of the needle bit deep into her neck. With a grunt, she dropped to the floor. One of the guards lifted her up, folding her over his shoulder like a wet towel.

"So...why'd they increase the dose?"

"Something about the scientist detecting emotion."

"What's wrong with being touchy-feely?"

There was a pause as if the guard had turned to glare at his companion.

"Hello? Merciless cold killer? The drugs make her kill and kill good. I guess it also helps the boss control her."

"Then why's she trying to kill us?"

"Probably the after-effects."

"So you're saying she's actually a grouch without all the drugs keeping her nice and putty."

"Sorta."

The guards continued in silence. Entering the room with the table, they dropped her and began securing the straps. When they were done, they left. Men in white coats took their place, needles entered her arm, her neck. The screeches reverberated through the room, through her skull once more. The cold came back slowly, creeping into her veins like a spider towards its prey. The hot coals were doused, the screeches were reduced to a drone, and then - nothing. The table was swung upright, she found herself looking at a holo screen once more.

The horribly pixelated image of the young woman on the holo screen looked right back. With barely recognisable wild brown hair, orange goggles obscuring more than half her face and the mouth reduced to a horrendous dash on harsh beige skin. On her chest was tied a metallic silver contraption glowing bright blue at its core.

"Your target," came the deep rumbling voice of the scientist "She is being taken in by local authorities for questioning. A former RAF pilot and Overwatch agent, she is trained - skilled. Furthermore...she has seen your face."

The scientist pauses, as if assessing Widowmaker's reaction. She remained silent, looking deadpan ahead, amber eyes fixed on the flickering holo screen. Satisfied with his examination, the scientist continues his briefing.

"She is being moved to the Metropolitan Police Station tonight. You have a one minute window during the transfer process. Kill her, leave no trace of yourself."

The straps come undone and once more the widow's kiss is pressed into her cold arms.

\-----

Atop the roofs of London. Widowmaker waits. Her rifle scoped and at the ready; trained on the open stretch of steps leading between the driveway and the station's double doors.

The black car that drives up is silent, holo tires glowing blue and barely humming against the wet stone floor. The doors crack open with a hiss, three suited agents leave the vehicle, one coming around to the back passenger door.

Brown hair dancing in the wind, orange jumpsuit a bright dash of colour against the dreary backdrop that is London's rainy streets, the young woman exits the vehicle guided by a suited agent. Her back was to the sniper, no chance to see the colour of those eyes before they fade, no chance to touch those pink lips before they pale. The only thing that is clearly visible is the device on her back, shining like a lighthouse in a storm, a blazing mark in Widowmaker's amber eye. Long tapering fingers caress the trigger on her rifle.

She wonders how she'll paint tonight.

" _Adieu cherie_ ," she whispers. She clamps down. The bullet erupts from the barrel. A graceful, silver pellet that sails across the distance. Widowmaker takes the rifle's recoil with the slight curling of her toes, eyes enraptured by the flying bullet - a messenger of death...

The metal slug connects with the stone floor with a thunderous sound, painting cracking thin tendrils across the tiles between three stunned agents. There was no blood. And then she hears it.

The bubbly giggle.

Widowmaker sighs, removing her scope from her eye. A grin stretches across her usually muted blue features, she's not cold...on the contrary, a fire has been lit within her. She turns, leaping gracefully over the rooftops as she pursues the blue wisp disappearing into the night.

Her painting might take awhile to finish.

But it will be worth it when she finally paints wild brunette hair adorning a head like a crown, bright orange ski goggles sitting atop dancing brown eyes, soft peach skin framing a smile that tugged at beautiful perky lips as _Tracer_ throws a careless salute at the Widowmaker before disappearing in a flash of blue.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I admit I had to end earlier than I hoped. I might revisit this at a later date but for now, _voila_.


End file.
